I do not think

There is such 

a thing as

A place,

A person,

A scent,

A sound

A touch,

A taste,

that I could link 

To what the faceless 

masses call home.

I do not think,

There is a version of me that exists,

Where home is something I have,

And not something I miss.

The past,

The present,

The future,

All in which 

I do not fit.

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